


One Night Without Respawn

by SirKai



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Action, Blood, Gen, Gore, tf2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-06
Updated: 2011-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:43:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirKai/pseuds/SirKai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The daily skirmishes are over. As the only RED mercenary left, Medic leaves his Medigun behind and pushes the battle into the BLU base.</p><p>Credit to FiveTail for the extensive beta process!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He ejected the magazine, eyeing the stack of twelve .45 caliber rounds encased inside. Medic slammed the fully loaded clip into the heavy black handgun resting in his hands; he tugged the extra pouches pinned to his suspenders, each one filled with spare magazines and loose ammunition. In a final trial of reassurance, the doctor patted the massive rusted syringe and pocket of medical supplies clung to his belt.

He exhaled one last sigh of visible breath, and ran two scarlet-gloved fingers across the bridge of his nose. It was a nervous habit he never did shake. Medic rubbed his fingers together, the grey mixture from his make up smudging lightly between them. The face paint helped ease the biting of the frigid air.

Snow drifted throughout the tight canyon beneath an overcast sky. Feint flakes scarcely peppering the doctor's long white coat. He planted his boots into the thick snow with caution, hunched over with both hands gripping his handgun. Every so often, Medic would whip his head around to double-check his surroundings, as if every decayed wooden structure and every nearby tree were hiding a potential foe. He was getting jumpy from excitement.

The enemy base was unmistakably enormous. It was a multi-floored shelter dug partially into the ground and coated in aged, chipping blue paint. The doctor's combat boots dug deeper into powder as he moved forward with lengthier and slower strides, reeling in towards the light emitted from the warped windows of the building. It had taken great effort to thoroughly memorize the maps of the canyon and the complex; the incredible scale of the base easily matched that of any respectable school or hospital campus the doctor could recall.

Medic knelt at the edge of a small bluff, several meters from the shelter. He tucked the pistol into his belt, removing his spectacles and running his thumbs over the damp lenses to brush the condensation from his vision. What regretful climate, he thought.

Medic slipped his glasses back on. Forced routine dashed through his mind--the sequence of hand-to-hand defensive maneuvers, disarming techniques, the placements of his supplies and ammo clips which ensured he wasn't weighed down unnecessarily, but still acutely prepared. It had been years since he’d endured any true battlefield experience; his reliability, efficiency, and record (or lack of) as a doctor far eclipsed his other attributes in the eyes of his superiors.

The German descended the bluff, creeping closer to the building. He hugged the nearby tree line as he rounded the corner. The massive open air warehouse entrance came into view. Bright florescent light crept onto the thinning snow and dozens of industrial sized crates lay stacked upon each other, surrounded by chipped brick walls and hollowed-out cavern rock composing the natural ceiling. Wide tire tracks led to the back end of the room near two stacked shipping containers, each adored with a worn Builders League United logo.

The numbing cold parted for the warmth that licked at his bare neck and face from the warehouse. He could smell oil, and the faint scent of gunpowder. And tobacco.

The doctor inched his way back around the corner, peeking into the warehouse. A series of rhythmic clicks honed towards him from inside. They weren’t the quick, consistent padding of a young athlete who may as well be gliding across the floor, nor were they the calculated steps of a compulsive thinker, the kind of man who counts the length and width of each footfall from one doorway to the next. These were the steps of a narcissist; a man who places each overpriced shoe with such precision and fidelity, he would never even question why he bothers. After all, no one should hear him coming. But the act satisfies him nonetheless, and that’s more than enough. He’ll slowly shut his eyes and smile to himself at the thought. Then he’ll drop his exhausted, smoking fag to the floor with a smug chuckle, and inefficiently grind it against his sole.

Medic had learned long ago that men like that were better off without feet.

The tall, slender man stepped into view, masked in a deep blue balaclava and a slightly less blue pinstripe suit. He pinched his smoking cigarette between two leather-gloved fingers and exhaled a lengthy, cancerous breath. The Spy stopped at the large open air entrance and brushed an unnoticeable amount of ash from his lapel.

Medic slowly slid his foot around the corner, trailing his boot through the snow. He raised the handgun with two gripped hands and studied Spy from across the length of the barrel. His cigarette dropped so delicately to the floor, hanging off of his lips for a moment as if independently deciding whether or not it wanted to fall. The Frenchman sighed as it rolled across the cement.

Spy brushed his pressed jacket back, sweeping his hand smoothly across the fabric of his clothes and into the front pocket of his pants. The hand was open as it moved, tasting the splendor and style of his suit through his gloves.

His hand was pocketed for no longer than the thrust of a bone saw before he rolled back his sleeve and glanced at his gold wristwatch. It was an act motivated by habit and audaciousness. No doubt he was more compelled to admire the beauty of the watch (painstakingly handcrafted by third-generation Swiss artisans, as Medic had been reminded on more than one occasion) than the time it displayed (a minute past eleven).

Spy thought himself a complicated creature, after all. However, Medic had learned that the the Frenchman was in fact very simple. Spy merely sought out complicated means for one dimensional satisfaction. He sat on a throne all his own, so high it must have been difficult to recognize the faces of the people below. And to Spy, that was everyone. The way his half-lidded eyes glared into the darkness, as if whatever lingered there only deserved a fraction of his attention; the rest of it was quite occupied with pleasing himself.

Medic watched the man bathe in ignorance. The Frenchman savored the final wisps of smoke that crawled from his mouth, and stared into the wilderness. He was completely unaware that he was about to die.

The doctor was a predator. The power was invigorating.

Medic reaffirmed his grip on the gun, and squeezed the trigger so fluidly, it might as well have lacked all weight and friction.

The handgun kicked in his grasp, expelling an emphatic gunshot. Spy’s head bolted backwards towards an expanding cloud of blood and sinew. An empty, steaming bullet casing dug into the snow. The dissolving blast resonated through out the snowy terrain into silence. Spy lay spread on top of the cool concrete. His head rested in a spreading pool of scarlet.

The German lowered his arms, a trail of smoke thinning in front of him. He took in a deep breath of gunpowder and wiped his thumb over the pistol’s warm barrel. It was the most he could do to relish the kill. He felt like he’d just run an entire species into extinction.

Medic stalked over to the Spy’s corpse. He grabbed a handful of the Frenchman’s jacket in his left fist and dragged him around the corner, leaving the body face down in the snow. The bullet-made outlet in the back of his head was appropriately embellished.

Hunched over and head down, Medic crept through the open warehouse door.

“Spy?” A low southern-American drawl echoed throughout the warehouse.

Another one of the doctor’s targets had made himself known. It was no surprise someone had heard the gunshot. This was going to be easier than expected.

Medic heard a predictable series of clangs and metallic rummaging from the far side of the room. He pressed his shoulder against a couplet of netted crates to the left of the entrance. The Engineer must have been securing a weapon. The familiar, hollow pump of his shotgun rang over the dozens of crates.

“Spy?” he repeated, louder this time. The man’s sense of combat protocol always was severely lacking, unlike the rest of his unit.

The slapping of worn boots reeled in closer to the doctor’s position. Medic’s breaths, slow and quiet, contrasted to the agitated pants of the nearby Engineer.

“Spy?” Engineer asked again, his voice subdued and low, as if expecting to find a brutalized body around the next corner. A large pool of blood might indicate such.

The man must have been no more than two yards away.

Deducing Engineer’s location from the sound of his broken-record drawling, the doctor sprang from his knees and swung his pistol over the crate, quickly taking aim with both hands. The pistol fired a shot through the air at the center of the Texan; an ear-splitting ricochet immediately followed, ringing beyond the deafening gunfire.

Medic ducked back behind the crate and mumbled a curse. The action had been a blur, but he had seen the BLU’s gloved hand flinch from the collision of the bullet. A series of rushed footsteps revealed the Engineer’s retreat for cover.

“Whoo!” Engineer exhaled once the blasts and ringing had dissipated. “You nearly got me there, Doc.”

Medic heard the mechanical whirs and metallic scraping of the Texan’s vile prosthetic. The doctor had always held nothing but contempt for such a disgusting contraption. The uncouthed inbred even had the nerve to use Medic’s own equipment to make room for the mechanical forearm. Medic never used that bone saw again.

“That coulda’ caused some real damage, but it ain’t a nothin’ a good wrenchin’ or two won’t fix,” the American said.

Medic imagined Engineer flashing a loathsome, self-satisfied grin while admiring the craftsmanship of his own device: the same smug, open-mouthed smile he wore whenever his beloved sentry gun amassed a kill, or whenever he wiped his bloody wrench across the leg of his overalls, standing over a bludgeoned Spy, or when he shooed the Medic away with the wave of his hand. “Don’t worry Doc,” he’d say, leaning against his contraption affectionately as if his body as a whole lacked the stress of even a single responsibility. “My dispenser’s got these boys taken care of.”

It was becoming more and more apparent to the doctor just how many facets of the man he hated. In retrospect, he found it a mystery how he ever tolerated him at all.

“Not up fer talkin’ on this job? That’s pretty damn admirable.” Engineer choked on the remaining bits of his sentence. Three thundering shotgun blasts peppered the crate shielding Medic. Bits of splintered wood rained around the doctor’s body and scattered across the floor. Medic instinctively hunched over and clasped his unarmed hand over his head.

The doctor reapplied his hand to the pistol. He shot his arms over the crate and fired at the gun smoke, dissipating from beyond a wide open doorway. Four shots dug into the cement corner protecting his target. Medic cursed himself again as he ducked back behind the crate.

“Bein’ pretty hasty there Sawbones. Ain’t like you,” Engineer taunted.

He’s right, Medic thought with a deep, outward breath. Relaxation. Precision. Care. I am a doctor after all.

The doctor had learned that applying his ‘highly trained’ sense of ‘medical precision’ to any situation almost always yielded satisfactory, if not spectacular results. Then again, the sudden advent of burning metallic pellets burying beneath the skin of his lower back had a habit of altering his typical outlook. States of pain had always done this to his mind; shake his focus from medical clarity to the face of raw, unbridled reaction.

Medic dashed to his feet and swung his arm widely around, firing two bullets at the doorway to cover his own movement. He sprinted the length of the warehouse, sliding across his knees behind an enormous BLU shipping container. Another shotgun blast compounded through out the cavern walls.

“Awfully risky of ya Doc,” Engineer called out. “Did I gitchya?”

Medic instinctively groped the swelling flesh below his left deltoid. He hissed inwardly as his blood-slicked gloves explored the number of small pellet-wounds underneath his flesh. At least seven, he counted.

“Ya never did handle too well under pressure,” the Texan lamented, as the hollow thunks of his reloading shotgun echoed inside the cave. “Always got so flustered, an’ antsy.”

The doctor impulsively swiped the magazine catch of his handgun with his thumb and flicked the pistol clip away with the turn of his wrist. The used clip clattered and slid across the floor from his feet. He feverishly dug into one of his suspended pouches to retrieve a fully-loaded magazine, and slammed it into the gun.

“Y’know,” Engineer started. Medic was barely able to discern the Texan’s lavishly accented chant beyond his own labored breathing. Some men truly did talk too much. “Solly was never too mindful for keepin’ track of his stuff. Specially these two sweethearts.”

The doctor heard the rustle of Engineer fumbling with his over-sized pockets.

“Then again, he didn’t use ‘em much anyway.”

Medic imagined another pompous, toothy grin forming on the Texan’s face.

“A damned shame if you ask me.”

There was a quick metallic scrape and an instant snap, like the hastened forward crack of a pistol’s slide. A series of heavy thuds pounded against the smooth pavement until a yellow-banded hand grenade rolled into view from around the corner of the container, not a foot’s distance from Medic.

The doctor took a single solemn moment to mentally curse his very own existence, before frantically scrambling to his feet and reeling his foot back. The toe of his boot collided with the broad center of the grenade. For a moment, Medic could swear the grenade decelerated, nearly to a stop, as it traveled airborne towards the nearby work bench and crates.

The next instant bypassed the doctor like a forgotten nightmare. A memory of something blinding, deafening, and overwhelming. Something that compressed him, like every oxygen particle around him were all suddenly grinding against his flesh in unison. A constant, vicious ringing assaulted the inside of his head. He reached up and dragged his hand over his scalp, half-tempted to try digging into his skull to make it stop. He recalled the Americans identifying such a sensations as “shell shock.” Aptly named.

Debris scattered the center of the warehouse: charred, shredded wooden remains intermixed with dozens of rifle magazines and ammunition canisters. Countless bullets littered the ground. Medic glared into the slowly dissipating haze of smoke for several breathless seconds before determining just how much of the smattering gray was filling the air, as opposed to the smears on his glasses. The overwhelming smell of gunpowder stung his nostrils. He settled on deliberate, cautious breaths through his mouth.

Medic slowly rose to his shaken feet from the cushion of the container. He drunkenly brushed his hand across the sheathe at his hip, and awkwardly tugged at the grip of his saw. He strained his muscles to yank the disobedient weapon. Then his empty hand dug into his empty handgun holster. The doctor wrenched his mouth open to utter a very vocal curse, just before his entire head jerked to the floor. The ferocious collision to his face snapped like a pair of flat brass knuckles from the end of a whip. The doctor rolled onto his back atop a very uncomfortable and pinching amount of splintered wood, bullet casings, and cornered objects. Medic rubbed his bruising left cheek with his gloved palm.

“Well damn, that went even better than expected.”

Out of all the things, the doctor begged. Out of all the things to split the ringing in my head, why did it have to be _him?_

Now Medic didn’t even have to imagine that despicable smile. There it was, suspended above him, attached to an otherwise featureless silhouette. Machine oil joined the gagging mass of smells. Engineer stood over the Medic through the thinning cloud of smoke and dust, and looked proudly at his skeletal right hand. The Texan stretched the fingers out, emitting a distinct electrical whir. Even the shortest of men looked imposing after suffering an explosive concussion and being threatened by a deadly mechanized prosthetic.

Medic heaved in an extended breath, watching the man above him stroke his artificial wrist affectionately.

“A damned shame to get all of yer pretty makeup ruined, but I ain’t gonna lie,” Engineer said. He seemed to be talking more so to his forearm. “I always wanted to do this.” His calloused fingers teased end of the rip cord dangling from the wrist of the metal hand.

The doctor strained his pounding head to the right and left, feeling the debris-laden cement floor through his gloves. Bullets, ammo drums, belt-bound pouches, even spare cigarette cases. Goddammit, he thought. How can a warehouse stock so many bullets, and yet no guns to fire them from?

Engineer tugged the rip cord aggressively. The arm shuddered and twitched at the action.

Medic was momentarily too distracted to confirm his suspicion, his hand brushing over useless debris and supplies, but the image of the Texan’s smile widening even further clouded his thoughts.

And then the doctor heard a motor turn over, like the Engineer was revving up a lawn mower. It drowned out all ambiance, as if the metallic hand was suddenly a void for all other sound. Medic almost sighed in an awkward blend of disbelief and desperation. The sick mechanic keeps a _motor in his hand_ , the German thought. Light gusts of air whipped at his face and hair.

_Why in the hell does he-_

But a simple glance ahead proved the reason. The Engineer’s arm was lowering towards Medic’s face, _spinning_. It blurred in a circular rotation like a fan, and just beyond it was that detestable grin. The doctor regretted even looking up.

Medic’s arms went limp. The BLU leaned over and gripped the blackened shirt and scorched red tie with his organic fist, slowly heaving the doctor to his feet. Only a single bewildering question raced through Medic’s mind.

How did Spy ever manage to deal with this man? He suddenly had new found admiration for the French snake.

Medic had admittedly never been struck by lightning, but he believed it would feel something like the icy, breathless realization that cleaves through one’s senses. It was the moment he drew a syringe from a patient’s arm, and coldly recalling that his needles had gone unsterilized. The moment he remembered that his mother’s birthday had just passed, and he neglected to call her. The moment he finally comprehended that a blunt rotary fan the size of his head was startlingly close to trimming his eyebrows.

It was also the moment when the doctor discovered just how Spy _did_ deal with this man.

Medic could have sworn his heart almost leaped from his chest.

Cigarette cases, he remembered.

The doctor fumbled his fingertips across the surface of the floor, lightly brushing aside the smooth, rounded features of the polished cases or brass-colored bullets. He needed a box. A gray box, the size of a bloated paperback novel, with dangling cords, and switches and dials and an over-sized gauge of tick marks and red bars that probably didn’t relay any notable information at all. He grazed his gloved fingers over the object, recognizing the sleekness of the switches and the heavily notched texture of the dial’s grip. He had been laying on it.

Engineer continued dragging Medic to his feet, but the doctor couldn’t hear the words beyond the active motor. The current of wind slapped aggressively at his hair. The mechanized hand had nearly engulfed his entire range of vision.

Medic pinched an end of the Electro-Sapper with two fingers. It lifted from the ground with him. The BLU cocked his head to the right curiously and slackened his grip of Medic’s shirt a bit, before re-equipping his devilish, conceded smile and muttering something. The German couldn’t hear the words over active motor between them, but had little doubt it was anything more than the inbred’s typical conceded drawl.

Medic was always fan of unnecessary theatrics. If there was an immediate audience, he’d admit to having a very difficult time not calling their attention to what he was about to do.

The doctor swung the sapper at the wrist of the prosthetic. Sparks immediately serged from the hand. Engineer dropped Medic back to floor, the shorter man stumbling backwards. The rotating hand was forced to a screeching, _cringing_ halt, as the two corded nodes wrapped around the palm of the hand like predatory tentacles. The tightly-bound wires claimed the space between the steel digits. The Texan clawed feebly at the sapper with his other hand.

“Goddammit!” he screamed, drawing his burned fingertips away from the writhing, contorting metal appendage. An orange flicker rose from the crevices of the prosthetic. Engineer’s arm had caught fire.

He stared at the burning travesty. His mouth was hung open and his eyebrows were arched in hopelessness, like a man staring at a newly carved tomb stone bearing his own name. Medic could only surmise that such a revelation must be quite sobering.

The fire spread until it had engulfed his entire palm, and neared the bare flesh of his arm.

“Aw hell.”

A blast of red and yellow erupted from short man’s forearm. The explosion overtook his entire stature. Fluid streaks of scarlet struck the surrounding walls and floor; bits of barely identifiable tissue, giblets, charred scrap metal and bone populated the cement. Medic watched the entire scene without blinking. He was vaguely aware of a new film of blood that had showered onto the knees of his pants.

The doctor rose anxiously, cupping his still-fresh shotgun wound, while mindful of any undocumented injuries. He brushed varying degrees of ash from his clothing. The blood will have to be washed out, he thought.

Medic’s eyes drifted towards the remains. Engineer’s arm was clearly missing (well, ‘missing’ wasn’t entirely true. In fact it was arguably harder to miss than the rest of him), but the explosion had also taken his entire shoulder, as well as an impressive amount of his chest. Even at a glance, the bloodied ribcage was visible; a subtle peek would have no doubt revealed the man’s heart and lungs too. The flesh across his jaw and right cheek had also been seared off. His hardhat couldn’t be seen.

The doctor swelled his chest with air and sighed, absorbing the grisly view. As far as he was concerned, few events were more worthy of historic recollection.


	2. Chapter 2

“Holy shit, Doc.”

Medic spun around to face the tight gray hallway tucked into the back corner of the warehouse.

The young American athlete stood in the opening of the hallway bearing wide, sunken eyes. The double-barreled shotgun slowly sagged in his grasp past his belt.

The doctor inwardly smiled at the mental visual of happening upon himself prevailing over the remains of the BLU Engineer.

“Oi, Lad! What happened!?” A slurred, throaty Scottish accent echoed from deeper inside the hallway.

Scout’s entire body shuddered from the legs up as if he’d suddenly conducted a current of electricity.

“It’s him!” the boy shouted. “It’s freakin’ Medic man!” Scout’s fingers tightened around the scattergun as he lifted it to point the open barrels at the doctor.

Medic ducked his head and darted to his left. Two thundering blasts rang out behind him as he vaulted over the destroyed crates towards the warehouse entrance. His trailing coat dragged over the splintered wood. He kept running, leaping over two undamaged boxes and speeding behind a third near the wall. He could barely hear the hurried footsteps and reloading weapons over the blood pounding his skull.

The gap space between the crate and the wall grew increasingly narrow as he shuffled through it.

The muscles in his neck stirred as he strained his head around. A scattergun blast shook the wood beneath his fingers. Medic gasped for breath as a mass of splintered lumber chips slapped his face. The doctor’s knees scraped against the grooves of the crates. He barred his teeth, grinding forward while the exposed syringe trailing down his leg dug into the flesh behind his knee. Sweat collected inside his gloves and vexed at his knuckles. Suddenly, agony blazed through his left leg as if a burning fire poker had been drilled into his thigh.

The doctor opened his mouth to scream while his eyes began rolling backwards in his head; only a desperate, hollow sigh crawled from his drying throat. He kneed at the crate furiously, exerting his flat palms against it and emitting a barely comprehensible German swear.

“I got him!” Scout yelled.

“Well shoot him again!” Demoman said.

“Relax, this’ll be easy.”

The doctor desperately threw his hand out towards the exit of the gap. His fingers barely caught of the edge of the crate. He flexed and strained his arm to drag the rest of him through. Medic finally sidled through the exit and staggered onto his knees. His lungs drew in a massive breath like he had just surfaced from the bottom of the ocean.

Glancing down, Medic saw a glint of copper at his hip. He reached down and frisked the dark leather sheathe of his saw. His fingers passed over a large, deformed 9mm bullet protruding from just under the hilt. The doctor paused as he recalled the cloud of shrapnel and supplies triggered from the Engineer’s hand grenade. Medic pressed the saw still against his leg to rip the bullet free. The round of ammunition had pierced the blade clean through, leaving a small hole in its place. The doctor chuckled softly at the image.

Hunched over, Medicr drew the lengthy, steel syringe from its sheathe. A rusted quarter-blade was mounted in front of the angular hand guard, and an empty vial had been installed at the top of the syringe’s base. The device was bizarre, the doctor would admit, but its elegance as a weapon had proved to be shockingly effective on more than one occasion. (Though, its merit as a surgical tool had yet to be determined.)

The rushed pattering of pursuing footsteps heightened until the Scout sprinted around the corner of the crate.

“Woah!” The boy lunged to the side as Medic thrust forward with the syringe. The doctor struck out again, swiping the air as Scout lifted his handgun up. The young BLU screamed as the length of the wide needle struck the backside of his hand and tore his bandages; the pistol jumped to the left and fired into the ceiling. Grimacing, Scout pitched his gun up again, and again. Medic first slapped the weapon away with the flat of his palm, and then applied the reach of the syringe’s rusted needle, both times triggering a satisfying misfire. Scout hopped back and trained the gun forward once more, this time clutching it with both hands in front of his arched brow. Medic veered his head away from the weapon’s sights and swung his foot upwards. The toe of his boot punted the pistol into the air, and the handgun arced over Scout’s head. Its owner watched longingly as it slammed into the wall several yards away. Scout’s head hooked back, wide-eyed, to the tune of a vicious front end of a boot to his throat. There were several rows of reddened lace-imprints across his neck.

Medic snatched the boy’s loose bit of shirt as he stumbled back and yanked Scout’s chest into his rising knee. Scout heaved in a gravelly breath as the doctor jerked him upright. The boy stared ahead with squinting, watery eyes and clenched teeth. Medic folded his blade against the inside of his arm and struck the side of the boy’s face with the back of his hand.

Scout staggered a bit as Medic released his shirt, before the doctor brought a hooking fist to his jaw. And then another. And then a third, this time to the right eye. Finally, Medic reared his arm back and pounded an elbow into Scout’s nose. The boy crumpled to the chilled floor, grasping his swollen and bleeding face. The large plastic shell of his earpiece shattered against the floor.

“You,” Scout started, voice nasally. “You broke my- my freakin’ nose!”

Medic stared over the Scout with a panting breath and a pair of cold, half-lidded eyes. He wiped the end of his sleeves against his forehead to soak up the sweat. As far as he was concerned, Scout should have considered himself lucky so far.

“Oi!”

The German casually looked to his left to see a dark-skinned Scotsman charging at him with an immense claymore raised over his shoulder. Demoman’s mouth was wide open, bellowing an intelligible foreign war cry. Medic cocked an eyebrow and glared at the attacking man like he was... well, like he was a howling black man parading a battered sword.

The sword cut the air in wide, lumbering swipes. Demoman gasped for breath alongside each cumbersome motion.

“I’ll,” the Scot breathed after a strained horizontal swing. The RED doctor evaded the sword with a fluid duck and hopped backwards. “Split ye wide open.” Demoman lunged forward with a labored jab. “Ya _bleedin’ psycho!_ ”

Medic flicked the saw into his grip as he sidestepped the stab, and whipped his armed hand at Demo’s outstretched arm. The blade carved a laceration along the length of the dark hand. Demoman wobbled backwards, clasping his free hand over the wound and hissing between his teeth. The tip of the claymore screeched across the floor as it followed him. Medic retained his upright posture and twirled the saw around an extended finger, flinging specks of blood dotteing onto the floor in front of him. The Scotsman gaped at the doctor as blood oozed between his dark fingers.

Medic peeked through the damp hair clinging to the left side of his face. He barely acknowledged the nearing groans and gasps of the young athlete that grew nearer. Scout stalked towards the doctor with both hands latched onto the black grip of a wooden baseball bat. Each of his encroaching footsteps were quicker than the one before it, until the boy was sprinting ahead, poised to strike with his arms raised above his head, his teeth bared like a rabid coyote.

Why? Medic pondered. Why is it always either too easy or too difficult to kill someone?

If the situation had allotted more time, the doctor would have breathed a conceited sigh before retaliating. Instead, Medic simply rolled his eyes before he swiftly leaned back from the overhead swing of the wooden bat. The resulting wind whipped his hair up.

“You stupid old bastard!”

Medic ducked a second swing from the baseball bat. His feet backtracked from each of Scout’s forward assaults. If the boy had anything to his name (aside from his commonplace immaturity, rashness, thoughtlessness, and general lack of foresight, of course), it was that he was startlingly quick and heedlessly aggressive.

“I’ve always hated you freakin’ doctor-types!”

A diagonal swing pounded into the crate to Medic’s left as he hopped to the side. Scout reeled his weapon back, littering the floor with splintered bits of wood. The German had observed his battlefield habits on countless occasions. Scout’s sensibilities--little though he had--frequently dried up at the slightest exposure of his own incompetence, in which case everyone was at fault for his failings except for himself.

“You were bad news from the start, you sick fa--”

The tip of Medic’s syringe shot out so quickly it took a short moment for the boy to react to it. Several inches of flesh tore cleanly apart along the Scout’s face, slowly seeping blood down his cheek. He patted the wound with his fingers and stared at the red on the inside of his hand. His striped shoes took two slow steps backwards.

The boy rarely displayed acts of genuine self-preservation.

Seeing his eyes tremble and breath hasten, Medic felt like he was watching Scout through a thick pane of glass from a sterile observation deck. Such developments in the boy’s character might have been noteworthy if Scout were noteworthy himself. Watching the boy was not unlike watching a toddler who attempts to force a square block into a round hole. Scout would merely pound the block senselessly, fume and then scratch his head in confusion just before ignorantly repeating the process.

Medic raised his saw defensively, carefully aligning his foot so the blood dripping from the needle wouldn’t contaminate his boots.

“Demo! Come on man, help me out!” Scout yelled.

“Aye, I got ya Laddie,” Demoman said. He wrapped both sets of bloody fingers around the hilt of his sword and marched into place next to Scout, curling his bottom lip. His brow was arched, and the Scot’s eyes stared straight into Medic’s.

The three stood in place, all posed to attack. Scout and Demoman anxiously re-tightened their fingers around of the grips of their weapons. Their feet jostled impatiently.

“You ready Lad?” Demo asked, still staring at Medic.

“‘Course I’m ready! What, you scared?”

“Ach, never!” the Scot spat.

Both BLUs struck out simultaneously. Medic skidded forward on his knees underneath the wooden bat and slapped the length of the claymore away with the weighty top of his saw. Demo stumbled forward, following the weight of his sword until the tip rapped against the cement. The Scot dragged the sword around into the air at the RED. Medic planted his free palm to the ground and arched his body feet first over the long blade. The sword lightly tugged at the tails of his coat as it passed underneath him.

The flats of Medic’s boots smacked the floor as he landed back on his feet, positioned between the two enemy BLUs. Scout’s relentless assault proved tiresome. The doctor ducked and hopped away from the swipes of the baseball bat while misguiding the jabs and cuts of Demoman’s sword. Medic found an intoxicating, almost pleasant rhythm to the process. Kick Scout’s bat away, purchase enough time to lead Demo’s sword into the nearby sandbags. Fling the syringe out and catch it on Scout’s arm, hear the boy hissing through his teeth while sending the Scotsman lurching back from a flat kick to his padded chest. It was all felt like a poignant exercise in precision management and efficiency.

“Damn, don’t you krauts ever just freakin’ die!” Scout wheezed as he dragged his bat forward for another series of strikes.

Medic smoothly stepped back and ducked away from the swings. Scout grunted with each advance, eventually rearing back and gathering the bat over his shoulder. The length of wood arced over his head as he swung the bat down at the doctor’s chest.

A defiant crack erupted between the RED and the BLU. Scout’s eyes slowly followed the body of his baseball bat until they rested on the meeting point where the width of the wood met the doctor’s immobile forearm. Medic squinted eyes stared into the boy’s beaten face like the ever-brightening lights of an oncoming freight train.

The doctor snatched the bat with his throbbing left arm and ripped it from Scout’s grasp. The BLU lurched forward as Medic twirled the wood vertically against his palm, driving the bat’s hilt into the boy’s jaw. His head snapped up like a popped cork alongside a hoarse cough in his throat. The spinning bat landed into Medic’s hand as Scout staggered backwards, the boy’s hands reaching for his chin. The RED doctor spun around, bat in hand, and swung the wide end into the side of Scout’s skull. The resulting crack shook Medic’s bones. He figured Scout’s probably shook quite a bit more.

The boy collapsed into a nearby crate, digging his fingernails into the chipped wood to stay on his feet. Medic glanced at the liberal stain of blood at the end of the bat and inhaled a satisfied breath. Scout’s head quivered towards the doctor. The pupils of his blue eyes were barely visible between the slits of his eyelids.

“D-doc, wait. P-please, just-” Scout bargained.

Medic jabbed the wide end of the baseball bat into the BLU’s stomach. Scout recoiled with a deep cough and clutched his abdomen. The doctor withdrew the bat and struck out with his saw, extended needle piercing the shirt and carving boy’s flesh from his ribs, up the side of his chest. Medic’s syringe ripped away from Scout with the satisfying tug of torn flesh and a rather humiliating squeal. The BLU rolled onto the cold floor and scampered in the opposite direction. He was clasping his right arm over as much of the bleeding wound as he could cover.

The German imagined that the boy must have felt violated. Overwhelmed. Crying within his undeveloped little mind how unfair it all was. How he must just want everything to stop. How he just wants the pain to go away, and to be tucked into his warm bed by that whore he calls “Mother.”

Don’t worry, Medic assured mentally. It’s all going to end soon, and it will be far less painful than you deserve.

“Why don’t you pick on someone yer own size, ya sick nurse-man!”

Medic shot his gaze over his shoulder at the Scot stumbling towards him, dragging it his sword like some weighted extension of himself. He should just let the damn thing go, Medic thought. He’ll at least stand more of a chance without it tying him down.

Demoman growled as he swung the heavy blade up from the floor, the scarred steel sparking against the smooth cement.

The doctor swiftly lifted the bat over his head and brought it down in front of the attacking BLU. The length of wood halted in the air with the enemy sword embedded into the center. Medic swept the toe of his boot into the hilt of the claymore. Demoman’s bloodied fingers loosened from the handle as the RED jerked the rooted sword away from him.

“No!” Demo howled. “Gimme it back! It’s _mine!_ ” The enraged Scot swayed towards the doctor, desperately clawing forward.

The sword and bat spun together in the air as Medic flung them from his hand. Snatching the bloody hilt the sword as it revolved towards him, the German crossed his arm over his chest and struck out with the sword in an extended diagonal arc. The thin end of the baseball bat smashed into the Demoman’s forehead and dislodged the embedded sword. The ruined length of wood clattered against the floor between them as Demo reoriented his attention towards the RED. His sole eye stared at Medic through the gaps in his fingers, growling through his teeth like a deranged animal.

As he raised the sword defensively with both hands, the doctor could only mentally remark what a sad, _impotent_ creature the Scotsman was. He was a sickened, needy individual. Demoman spent hours courting his liquor as he guzzled it. His fingers had studied the grooves and niches of the rounded glass as he held his bottles, not unlike how he studied the hilt of his own battered claymore. His inconsistent steps, his frequently slurred speech and movement, the way his lopsided torso dragged him forward like he was constantly struggling to keep himself bipedal. How offensive.

Medic glanced over the Demoman’s shoulder at the other end of the warehouse; Scout was scouring on his shaking knees, no doubt searching for his handgun. The Scot inched back from Medic, and took several quick glimpses behind him.

“Lad, you alright?” Demo called out.

“Y-yeah, I just... I can’t find my goddamn gun!”

Medic slouched his shoulders slightly and glared back at the Scotsman.

Demo gritted his teeth at the doctor. “Tch,” he scoffed, and sprinted back towards the his BLU ally.

Watching them rather casually, Medic observed the Scot kneeling next to the boy. The doctor strained to hear the Demoman’s hushed voice. Scout was expectantly loud.

“Oi, you alright lad?” Demo asked, placing a hand on Scout’s shoulder.

“What? Y-yeah of course. It don’t even hurt, it just... shit it won’t stop bleeding.”

“Come on boyo, let’s get outta the open.” As the Demoman ushered the Scout behind a gray metal container, he shot a venomous scowl at the RED doctor from across the warehouse.

Medic continued to calmly peer at them until they were completely obstructed by the container. Slowing his breaths, Medic closed his eyes and remained as still as possible to hear the enemy dialog that lightly echoed. He wanted to hear it. He wanted to _see_ it.

“Let me see lad,” Demo said.

There was a faint tearing of cloth; Demoman was no doubt shredding Scout’s blood-soaked shirt to examine the wound.

“Oh me mother of...”

“Wha-what the hell is with that face man!? What is it?” Scout’s shaken voice had become even more volatile.

“Lad, I think the Doc nicked an artery.” Demoman said softly.

“What the hell does that mean!? Just fix it!”

“It’s a bloody artery, Scout! Ya don’t jus’ tape it back together!”

“So what the... what am I supposed to do!?”

Medic imagined Scout beginning to fidget. He would scratch himself nervously, or reach out and, in futility, attempt to pin the wound close with his fingers.

“So I’m just... I’m just going to sit here and... and freakin’ bleed to death?” The boy’s tone deteriorated to sobs in between choking gasps for breath. Medic could almost see the tears welling up in his eyes. His increasing heart rate would only finish the job quicker.

Demoman didn’t say anything. Medic expected this; he knew how difficult it was to look a friend in the eye and tell them that they were about to die.

“Oh God I’m... I’m fuckin’ dying!” Finally, Scout’s breaths lengthened into dry heaves. The doctor imagined the sweat beading down his face and the color evaporating from behind his flesh. Demoman was probably displaying an element of affection. Perhaps by placing a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder.

A slight thud rung through the doctor’s skeleton. Medic envisioned the sound being caused by Scout’s limp head falling back against the container. His eyes would be wide open and his jaw hanging. A grin calmly snaked across Medic’s face.

Several moments passed until the doctor finally opened his eyes to the sight of the BLU Demo staring at him blankly from across the warehouse. His fingers were now coated in blood.

“Ya look right proud with yerself, Doc,” the Scot said. His open palm hovered at his thigh like he prepared for a quick draw.

Medic’s right thumb tapped the empty vial on his bladed syringe. His narrowing eyes studied the cyclops’ movements.

Demoman flicked open the black pouch on his thigh, revealing a green-capped stick grenade. He clenched it in one hand and furiously unscrewed the bottom lid of the explosive. A two inch long detonator cord dangled from underneath. The Scot started an exaggerated sprinting pace towards his RED enemy.

“FREEEEEDOOOOO-”

A glint of steel flashed across the room. Demo’s head jerked back with the tip of a rusted syringe exiting from the back of his skull. His feet slipped forward from underneath him, rotating his body backwards in the air until his neck snapped against the floor. The stick grenade bounced and rolled away from his grasp as his body crumpled into stillness.

Medic reeled back his arm. He curled his fingers into a fist, and stared down at his hand with a smirk. He had two more notches to carve into his saw blade.

 

After messily dislodging his weaponized syringe from Demoman’s skull, Medic sat down against the container next to the BLU’s body. He peeled off his sweat-laced rubber gloves and dug out a pair of tweezers from one of pouches on his suspenders. The doctor had done this hundreds of times before. Removing bullets and shrapnel was a very simple process. How much more difficult could it to be operate on oneself than on others?

The German brushed his hand over the injury, wincing and bunching up his shoulders as he did so. At the very least, taking the bullet out couldn’t be as painful as when it found its way in, he thought. But just in case, he decided to unhook his suspenders from his belt.

After a few minutes of deliberate mental preparation, the ends of Medic’s tweezers prodded the fleshy opening in his thigh, dabbing the metal tips with blood. He inhaled a deep breath and stuffed a wad of stacked suspender into his mouth. The doctor pressed his spare hand onto one of the shipping container’s solid ridges.

Medic told himself he was resting his finger against the trigger of a gun. He was facing an adversary, and if he didn’t act now, he was going to die.

The tiny metallic prongs dug into the wound, rubbing and tearing alongside the shredded walls of the bullet’s path. Elasticated leather indented beneath his canines and saliva dripped from his open mouth and down his chin. The tips of the tool inched through torn muscle until the prongs were over half way engulfed inside Medic’s leg. The doctor choked back a victorious chuckle as the prongs scraped against the flattened backside of the buried bullet. He swallowed, and lessened his grip on the tweezers. The damaged tissue widened from the pressure of the opening prongs. The tweezer’s claws finally latched onto either side of the bullet. Medic scrutinized one very specific rugged groove alongside a small stalactite in the ceiling as he began counting to an unspecific number. The taste of stark detergent and grotesque perspiration drowned his tongue.

Several seconds passed before his mind reached that unknown number. The doctor snorted like a threatened bull.

The prongs ripped from his leg in an instant. A thread of blood slapped the floor as two pieces of metal clattered and bounced atop the cement. Medic howled into the leathery material clogging his mouth; the roughness chafed against his gums as he bit further down. His shriek quickly transformed into a triumphant laugh. The doctor collapsed against the container with a solid thud. He spit the balled up suspenders from his mouth, indulging in a several more reps of confident chuckles.

Ending his maniacal tirade with a prolonged, relaxing sigh, Medic sat still for a while and gazed at the insides of his eyelids. Eventually, the warmth of blood collecting in his pant leg snapped him awake. He shoved a fist into one of his stained belt pouches and withdrew a small, transparent latex bag. He dug his finger into the center of the package and tore it open in an effortless motion, dropping a tiny needle and spool of thread into his lap. He dearly hoped the rest of the treatments wouldn’t be as painful.


End file.
